I hang up with my web developers and spend a moment considering if I should tackle the customer service issue that came up this morning.

Maybe not.

It’s Sunday about six in the evening, and I promised myself not to work Sundays.

An hour ago, I called a cab to take Uma and Sam to Evan’s birthday party at an indoor activity park in the north of Paris. They should be there by now. Given that Evan’s parents have low-GI treats to put into Sam’s goody bag, Uma’s probably taking a break at a nearby cafe.

Evan’s parents know what to do if Sam has a seizure, so I’m not anxious on that account. Neither do I worry Sam will be tempted to eat what he isn’t supposed to. He loves being seizure-free too much to take unnecessary risks.

The plan is for Uma to have a drink and get some work done for her school project while Sam is at the party. At eight, I’ll pick them up and drive them home.

That means I don’t have to leave until seven.

Only, if I stay here, I know I’ll be less disciplined about avoiding work than Sam is about avoiding sugar. Why not join Uma at the cafe? I could have a beer and chat with her if she feels like it. I picture us sitting across from each other, talking. A whole hour of listening to her gentle voice and staring into her beautiful eyes, completely risk-free.

For Uma, a cafe is a safer place to be around me than my house.

I speed-dial her cell phone. “Would you care for company?”

“If you promise not to distract me,” she says. “I’ll be graded on this project so my stitches must be perfect.”

“I’ll bring a crossword puzzle to keep myself intellectually challenged.”

She laughs. “I’ve never seen you do a crossword puzzle.”

“The secret of getting ahead is in getting started,” I quote Mark Twain.

She chuckles and gives me the name of the cafe.

When I get there a half hour later, the first thing that strikes me is that the place is unusually dark. As I make my way through the crowded bar area, I notice something else. There are several couples kissing and touching near the front of the cafe, and there’s another couple perched on stools at the bar doing the same thing.

All of them are same-sex.

I spot Uma at the best lit table in the back, talking to a server. She holds her embroidery frame in one hand and points to a mug on the table in front of her with the other. “I’d like another tea, please.”

“Sure thing, ma belle,” the waiter says, grabbing her mug.

He wears a black leather cap, leather pants and a sleeveless leather jacket with metal zippers and no T-shirt underneath.

“Wait!” Uma calls after him as he turns to walk away. “I changed my mind about the tea. I think I’d like something else for my second drink.”

“Name your poison, honey.”

“Hmm…” She pinches her chin. “Something hot… maybe—”

“How about me?” He puts his right hand on his hip and gives her a sultry smile. “I’m hot.”

Uma’s mouth falls open. She blinks, clearly taken aback, before comprehension flickers across her face. The poor darling’s just realized she’s in a gay bar.

The waiter pouts. “Don’t look so scandalized.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

The waiter’s expression softens.

“You are very hot,” Uma says.

“I know.” He grins. “This place, sweetheart,”—he points around the room—“is a haven of tolerance and open-mindedness.”

She nods. “Of course.”

“Our motto is, ‘Whatever lifts your rocket as long as it’s consensual.’ ”

“That’s a great motto.”

He points at the frame in her hands. “Some people, for example, get off on embroidery. And that’s OK. We don’t judge.”

She grins, visibly relaxing. “You’re very kind.”

“So, what shall I get you, babes?”

“A cappuccino, please.”

“You got it.”

“And a Guinness for me,” I say, plonking myself across from Uma.

The server nods and hurries away.

Uma stares at me. “I didn’t see you walk in. How long have you been here?”

“Couple of minutes.”

“So, you witnessed my provincial dimness and my chastisement?”

“I did.”

She leans in, mischief brightening her eyes. “Do you mind starting on that crossword puzzle before the waiter comes back?”

“Why?”

“Misery loves company.”

I arch an eyebrow. “In other words, you don’t want to be the only odd duck around here.”

She nods.

“I don’t have a crossword puzzle.” I spread my hands in apology.

She sighs and packs her frame into her tote bag. “I guess we’ll have to talk, then.”

The server returns with our drinks, and Uma gives me a quick account of the workshop she attended yesterday.

I screw up my face in sympathy. “Lucky for me someone else taught the workshop when I took it a few years back. Your Stanislas might’ve discouraged me from trying.”

She smiles. “I doubt it. No one can discourage you when you put your mind to it.”

“Is that what you think?”

She nods.

We stare into each other’s eyes before I shift my gaze to my beer. “So, what’s your plan after December? Will you stay in France or go back to Nepal?”

“If Stanislas is half-right, I’d better try my luck back home.”

“Doing traditional embroidery?”

“Not necessarily,” she says. “We have a burgeoning fashion industry and some up-and-coming designers I’d love to work with.”

“Sounds great.”

Not great. Not great at all.

“It’s just…” She frowns. “When I go back to Nepal, my parents will expect me to marry Giriraj.”

“Your wannabe fiancé.”

She nods.

“What about your real fiancé, Noah?”

“He isn’t my fiancé.” She wrinkles her brow. “I mean, I don’t really know… We’ve never talked about it.”

“I thought the two of you had an unspoken understanding.”

She looks down and then up at me, smiling weakly. “Seeing as it’s unspoken, and as I don’t have mind-reading ability, I don’t know anything beyond what Marguerite tells me.”

“What does she tell you?”

“That Noah is in love with me.”

Are you in love with him?

If only I had the guts to ask that question! Instead, I gulp down my beer and gaze into Uma’s bottomless eyes, letting my misgivings and guilt dissolve in their depths.

She holds my gaze.

Slowly, the room and the people around us become a blur. Her delicate hands are flat on the table. So close. I’m dying to cover them with mine.

God, she’s lovely. Unbearably, almost surreally lovely. She makes me think of candied ginger, sweet and spicy at the same time. I can almost taste it on my tongue as I look at her.

The longer I stare at her heart-shaped face, the more my hands itch to delve into her hair.

The table that separates us is so small I could easily reach behind her head and undo the bun at her nape. There’s nothing I’d like more right now. Nothing. I crave to let her glossy black hair tumble over her shoulders, long strands sliding over the backs of my hands and between my fingers.

Would she let me?

If the way she’s looking at me now—the way she often looks at me—is anything to go by, I think she would.

Uma is drawn to me. My Asian ginger candy wants me, perhaps as much as I want her.

Finally allowing myself to acknowledge what I’ve known for some time now fills me with joy and pride, but also with apprehension. It makes my head spin as if I’d had several vodka shots and not just one beer. This place with its dim lighting, sexy music, and couples kissing everywhere certainly isn’t helping.

Neither are Uma’s parted lips or her flushed cheeks.

“Has Noah ever kissed you?” I ask, barely recognizing my voice.

She shakes her head.

“Has anyone ever kissed you?”

Her blush deepens. “No.”

Jesus Christ.

I should get out of here as fast as I can. Except I know I won’t even if this place were burning. Instead of scaring me away, Uma’s innocence makes her even more desirable. It makes her irresistible.

“Curious to know what a kiss feels like?” I ask.

Slowly, without taking her eyes off mine, she nods.

God help me.

I swallow hard. “Want to try?”

She nods once more.

Leaning forward, I take her face between my hands and brush my lips against hers. They are soft and warm, and the contact is so sweet that my chest tightens. I will myself to go slow and keep the kiss light and tentative.

Mustn’t rush it. Mustn’t overwhelm her.

Don’t want to risk her calling this unhoped-for experiment off.

Moving my left hand to the back of her head, I find the chopstick-like contraption she uses to hold her bun together. Carefully, I pull it out. As I set it on the table, her hair falls to her shoulders in gorgeous silky waves. I press my lips a little harder against hers and delve my hands into her hair, letting it envelop them.

The caress feels so good I let out a ragged sigh.

Need more. So much more.

Grabbing a fistful of Uma’s hair, I bring it closer to my nose and breathe it in. Lavender. Must be the homemade shampoo she bought in Provence. The scent becomes her.

Everything becomes her.

I wrap a lock of her hair around my hand and draw back a notch so I can take a good look at her.

Uma’s eyelids are shut, and her face is turned up to me, flushed. When she opens her eyes, the black depths are filled with unmistakable hunger. For me.

Must taste her.

Sliding my hand to the nape of her neck, I pull her closer until our lips meet again. I sweep my tongue over her lower lip, lingering in the corner of her mouth and coaxing her to open it.

She parts her lips, and I push my tongue in.

I gasp as her taste invades my senses. Ginger soaked in honey.

The taste of heaven.

Angling my head, I lean into her and take her mouth in a hard, raw kiss. My tongue strokes hers, pushes, probes, and explores her palate and the backside of her teeth. My hands are on her neck, her face, and throat, holding her, so she won’t pull away. This is not the way to kiss a first-timer. This is no way to treat a virgin. She’s bound to find it repulsive—too rough, too wet, too intimate. Too much. She’ll hate me for this. Any minute now, she’ll plant her hands on my shoulders and push me away.

Only she doesn’t.

My sweet Uma takes her cue from me and glides her tongue against mine. The motion is tentative, hardly perceptible, but it’s there. I go wild. No more restraint, no more regard for her lack of experience, no holds barred.

I enclose her mouth even more fully, push my tongue deeper inside, graze my teeth over her lips, nip and suck her tongue.

When I break from her, it’s only for a moment to let both of us catch our breath. Her lips are crimson red and swollen from the kiss.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

We pant and stare at each other, but then something flickers in Uma’s eyes. She glances at her watch. “It’s five to eight.”

Sam.

“We have to go.” I jump up and stride to the bar where I pay for our drinks while Uma collects her handbag, pulls her hair back into a bun, and catches up with me by the door.

We run all the way to the activity park.

“Don’t worry,” Uma says as we enter the premises. “We’re on time.”

“Thanks to you.”

Twenty minutes later Sam, Uma, and I drive home to Inry.

Uma is sitting next to Sam in the back of the Beamer. She always sits there when he’s in the car. He gets carsick easily, so she holds his hand and keeps him distracted with stories or songs. If it’s dark outside, she sings him Nepali lullabies, which are very effective in making him doze off.

I glance at her in the rearview mirror before forcing myself to look away and focus on the road. It’s a tall order, considering what went down less than an hour ago.

Just a chat in a cafe where it’s safe for Uma to be around me, huh?

The hell it’s safe.

Here’s the bitter truth. She isn’t safe from me anywhere. Certainly not in my house and not even in a public space while waiting to collect Sam. I can no longer trust myself to keep my hands off her when we’re alone.

So, I’m never going to be alone with her again.